


mamma drama

by Ryah_Ignis



Series: Season 12 Codas [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x13 coda, Gen, Hurt Sam, gets a little bit of love for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9935468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryah_Ignis/pseuds/Ryah_Ignis
Summary: "He really doesn’t want to have this conversation, but he presses forward anyway.“Imagine if someone—if God, if your brother—sat you down across from Alastair and told you to buck up, work together, save the world.”He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, but that just makes the sentence fall completely flat from his lips.  It sounds like someone else entirely has said it.  Sam examines his fingernails for a long moment before looking up to check how Dean has taken it."Sam and Dean talk about Mary working with the BMoL.  It goes...surprisingly better than expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Be wary of some vague discussion of Bucklemming-consistent consent issues. I'm personally of the opinion that if you could handle their eps, you'll be fine, but YMMV.

There are little half-moon crescents dug into his palms.

Sam forces himself to relax his hands.  The little grooves remain for a few seconds before fading from red, to white, to nothing at all.  He takes a few breaths in through his nose and releases them through his mouth.  It doesn’t help as much as his and Jess’s yoga instructor had claimed it would, but then, Sam hadn’t expected it to.

He’s been staring at the map table for about two minutes straight without blinking, so Sam forces himself to get to his feet and make his way to the kitchen.  Dean had stormed off to his room and Mary off to…somewhere a few minutes ago, so there’s no one to intercept him.

Good.  He doesn’t want to talk about this.  Not right now.

Sam goes through the motions of making himself a cup of tea, hyper-focusing on each step of the process to crowd out the other thoughts jostling for attention in his head.  Fill the kettle with water—three quarters of the way so it doesn’t spill.  Put it on the burner, turned to warm.  Teabags in Dean’s meticulously organized spice drawer.  Mugs in the significantly less organized cabinet.

He makes it through all the steps without thinking about anything important at all.  But after the kettle whistles and the tea finishes steeping, he’s officially out of distractions.  He runs the risk of crossing paths with Dean or Mary if he leaves the sanctuary of the kitchen, so Sam opts to try his luck with just drinking rather than getting one of the books out of the library.

Instead, he closes his eyes, cups his hand around the still-warm mug, and tries to breathe like he was taught.  He doesn’t do a very good job of clearing his mind—no matter what he tries, images keep sneaking in.  Toni— _was it good for you?_ Lucifer— _this isn’t over, Sam._   The slimy meals pushed through a grate— _chow time!_

Today, though, it’s Toni that sticks in his head. 

Sam takes a sip of his tea, too fast.  It scalds his throat.  Grimacing, he sets it back down on the table so he’s not tempted to drink again too fast.  Before it cools, he hears someone in the doorway.

“I’m inputting a whiskey ban,” Sam tells him.

Dean makes the face—for all her current faults, Mary has that much right—before sitting down across from Sam at the table.  He drums his fingers on the wood, looking around as if trying to get Sam to talk isn’t his primary motivation.

“You were awful quiet in there,” he says at last.

Sam doesn’t quite look at him. “She’s like you, Dean.  She’s not going to change her mind just because I have an opinion.”

And isn’t that just the story of his life?  He can complain all he wants, but in the end, what he wants doesn’t matter.

Dean splutters for a moment. “Like me?  What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam just shakes his head.  He takes another sip of his tea.  The hot bite is grounding.  Dean doesn’t relent, ignoring all of Sam’s signals to just let it go.

“What do you mean?”

Sam can’t bring himself to take another sip—his tongue still has that cottony feeling from taking a sip too fast.  He’s forced to answer instead.

“It’s not like this is the first time that we’ve worked with someone who—” His hand convulses despite his best efforts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“What?”

Sam sighs. “Look.  I was finally starting to—to feel like my brain was mine again.  And the Toni just waltzed in there and took that away from me.  I didn’t even believe you were real at first.”

As he’s so recently been reminded, his skin isn’t his.  Or, at least, it’s not his _alone._ And knowing that stings.

Dean shakes his head. “We’re going to talk some sense into her, Sammy.  I promise.  She’s just not thinking straight.”

Sam makes another noncommittal noise.  He gets halfway to raising his cup to his lips before he remembers that it’s too hot to drink. 

“Something’s still eating at you.”

“It’s not like it’s mattered before.”

There’s a slightly hysterical note in his voice that Sam sort of hates, but can’t control.  He forces himself to take another breath before he speaks again.

“You spent forty years in Hell, Dean.”

It’s telling that, even after what feels like a lifetime between then and now, Dean flinches slightly at the reminder.

“Okay?”

He really doesn’t want to have this conversation, but he presses forward anyway.

“Imagine if someone—if God, if your brother—sat you down across from Alastair and told you to buck up, work together, save the world.”

He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, but that just makes the sentence fall completely flat from his lips.  It sounds like someone else entirely has said it.  Sam examines his fingernails for a long moment before looking up to check how Dean has taken it.

“I—Sam.”

“Don’t _Sam_ me,” Sam snaps, a little more venom in his voice than he’d intended. “And don’t act like this—what Mom is doing—is new.   It’s not.  I’ve done this song and dance before.  I’ll live.”

Dean looks like he might be sick. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

Sam isn’t expecting his brother to clap a hand on his shoulder, so he jumps a little when Dean makes contact.  He withdraws immediately, holding his hands up in surrender.

“I’m sorry.”

He knows how hard those words are for Dean to say, so he manages a tight smile.

“Thanks.”

“No.  I mean it.” Dean brushes his hands through his hair. “If I’d thought about it like that, I would have never—I’ll talk to her again.”

He hesitantly gives Sam’s shoulder another pat before turning towards the door. 

“No,” Sam corrects him. “ _We’ll_ go talk to her again.  Together.”

He and Dean make their way out of the kitchen side by side, the way that they’re going to talk their mother.  And sure, it’s not going to fix the past.  But it gives Sam a little bit of hope for the future.

 


End file.
